


Place of Power

by SpaceBetweenHeartbeats



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Not beta'd we die like men, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28788975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats/pseuds/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats
Summary: In the postcoital comfort of the reader's bed, Eskel reflects on the nature of power and finds it in an unexpected place.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Eskel (The Witcher)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Place of Power

**Author's Note:**

> This came from my Tumblr. A dear friend suggested "Place of Power" as a title in an ask game. Here's the result, soft and smutty with a little bit of bondage if you squint a bit

There's whispers of hidden places where magic is almost pulsatile, _places of power_ the old ones called them; the convergence of a ley line or two where all powers are amplified and the connective tissues between worlds are friable and worn.

Eskel isn't sure he believes in the tales of old women and small children. Instead, he lies in the soft furs of your bed, warm and sated and lets his mind drift back to the hills of his birth, soothed by the lullaby of a landscape of his remembering

As Eskel weaves together the broken fragments of his memories, he recalls the familiar lilt of his mother's voice.

" _We are one with the fells"_ , his mother had said, " _for hillfolk, like the fells, often sense the way of things."_

The first blooms of heather and gorse are still vivid and bright in the canvas of his mind and he remembers the taste of the wind, dark and knowing, the way it stole the breath from his lungs and carried it across the wide valley floor.

There was something _charged_ in the air over the vast expanse of the high fells, where icy tarns replete in their inky depths met the iron grey of sheer screes to form a lightning quick descent and a tangle of broken limbs for the uninitiated. If he tries hard enough, he can still feel the thin crepuscular rays that followed the spring storms like the caress of a forgotten lover across the planes of his once perfect face and hear the music of the beck in full spate, wearing boulders to pebbles, the slow grind of time seemingly made slower still.

The soft crackle of the fire and the spit of pine logs cuts through the soft hush of the morning and he smiles as he draws strength from your warm body beside him, drowsing through the winter hail that batters at the windows of your small home

The gentle thrum of your pulse in his ears, the whisper of your breath ghosting over the wine dark scars of his face and neck has a magic of its own. The Path demands so much of him, and he is so very weary but the thoughts that prick and pierce the soft veil of his slumber hold no terror for him in the fortress of your embrace.  
Curled around his hulking form, the soft press of your breasts against his back and your leg casually thrown over his hip anchors him as he drifts between worlds.

"Shhh, sleep now love", he says, kissing your knuckles as you stir and sigh, content to have you sleep for a few minutes more.

How many times have you traced the fresh bloom of bruises with your lips and pulled the pieces of him back together with catgut and needle?

You are a brave explorer indeed to have mapped the constellation of scars scattered across his body, the fat ropes of ruined and puckered skin, the coiled muscles that are at once both so familiar and yet so alien.

He can still taste you, honey-sweet on his lips, and his cock swells as he remembers the thin sheen of sweat that gilded your skin as you rode him in the warm wash of firelight, your hair gently tousled and pupils blown wide.

He is wine drunk on the scent of your pleasure. There is sanctuary in the clutch of your cunt and heaven to be tasted at the juncture of your thighs. With thick wrists restrained by little more than the sash from your gown, he had bucked and trembled under your sweet dominion, sweat slicked and slack jawed, gritting out your name to the cold January air.

You angled your pelvis, pulling the muscles tight and began grinding a little slower, lazily palming your breasts, pinching and teasing your nipples watching as his sungold eyes eclipsed to black.

The sheath of your body a perfect mould to his own, the roll of your hips and the perfect o of your mouth a vision from the gods and a luminous charge of crackles and flickers beneath his skin licked sparks up his spine in a thousand tiny jolts as you wrung your pleasure from him with breathy cries.

"So good for me, now come", you had murmured into the shell of his ear and suddenly his skin was too tight, the twitch and throb of his cock and the wet heat of your cunt eclipsed by the roar of blood in his ears.

He had come with a low growl, sweat beading his forehead as the flood of his hot spend painted your cunt. You had leaned forward, resting soft palms on the broad planes of his chest as you coaxed him through the aftershocks, muttering praises and pressing open mouthed kisses on his sternum. **_Gods he feels so alive here. It's strange how we run back to what we know._**

The ripple and play of his muscles shift beneath your tight embrace but he makes no move to break free, for deep beneath the furs, wrapped in the arms of his lover he has all the magic he could wish for.

This is his place of power


End file.
